Sausages for the Slave Ch. 06

When you are restrained in bondage, like I am now, you need to be able to let your mind wander. My arms are held up behind me in the T-bar forcing my head down so that I can only stare at the terrazzo floor between my feet. In this situation, letting your mind wander helps while away the hours. Thinking about being held in an awkward position only reminds you of your discomfort. The wife -- who ordered me into this bondage position - doesn't like the word pain. It's overly dramatic. Discomfort is acceptable. Sometimes when she has me, as now, in an afternoon of bondage on the T-bar she will call me up on the tablet from her office and ask how I'm doing. I'll say, 'I'm in some discomfort, Madam,' or even push it to; 'I'm in a lot of discomfort, Madam.' She will reply with something like, 'That is the whole idea in the first place isn't it, boy? What would be the point otherwise? And I'll do the 'Yes, Madam' thing, bobbing my head in that compliant underling way that she likes.

Since you can't do anything about your discomfort, you may as well distract yourself by thinking about other things. Other things besides time, that is. You shouldn't think about time; not the actual time of day, nor the time that has yet to elapse before you are released. It will only get you into troubled waters. Don't go there. The wife, who thinks a lot about these things, has kindly ensured that the tablet set in the wall opposite my bondage position is showing the time in large digital format. It is also making a slow steady ticking sound. My wife controls the tablet. My punishment for a minor misdemeanour is four hours in the T-bar with my feet spread by a four foot spreader bar. That's two fours; eight, or four squared; sixteen. See? You can do mental arithmetic to while away the time or, better still, think happy thoughts. But the pain and cramping keep pushing back in. I try and shift my position a bit to ease it. You can't shift much when your feet are held in the spreader bar. You can flex your knees a bit; up and down, but each flex down just pulls out of your shoulders more: different pain, but still pain. So you go still again after a few flexes and try and think of something else.

Today, I can't actually see the tablet on the wall across from me because of my feet being in the spreader. The tablet is positioned a bit less than five feet off the ground, just below head height. Normally when I am held in the T-bar, I am bent over just a bit, due to my wrists being held about six inches above waist height behind me. So it is fairly easy to glance up and see the tablet, but you don't want to force your head up all the time. The natural position is to let it drop and just look at the ground. Now the spreader bar changes things drastically. A four foot spread doesn't seem like much but it is about as far apart as an ordinary mortal's feet can go with losing control. You are at the limit of natural stretching. You feel the backs of your thighs begin to cramp up. The ligaments that run along the inside of your thighs up into the groin are stretched taut and hard. The spreader bar may keep you from going into the splits but the tops of your legs feels like a chicken drumstick must feel as it is about to be pulled away from the carcass. And that's not all. As your legs are spread ever wider, your back is pulled down lower, so you are dragging more out of your arms that are fixed that bit higher behind you in the T-bar. This makes your shoulders bend over more, forcing your head down till you are looking between your legs. There is no way you can lift your head enough to look in front of you, never mind high enough to see the tablet. So while you are obliged to listen to the clock ticking, you can't actually see the time, which, if fact, is a good thing. Instead, you get to look a lot at your shrivelled penis and watch the strange but constant slow, crawling movement of the skin of your scrotum. Stranger still is the sight of one testicle slowly pulsing and then the other. Creepy; a bit like how a slug or caterpillar moves.

Not long after her first big promotion my wife bought this old mansion in a gated community which has a little guard hut at the main gate, manned by some old guy who has been doing the job for a hundred years. She had our house (her house actually, but I live here too, so I say it's our house) fully made over and added a few special extras with me in mind. She got the whole of the ground floor done in terrazzo with under-floor heating; no radiators, no pipes, no fuss. Terrazzo is hard wearing and easy to clean too. I should know. My room is at the back on the ground floor. I call it my room, but more correctly it is the room she put me in. It has one window on the back wall opposite the door. The window is circular and high up. It makes a nice architectural feature when viewed from the back garden. Inside, it's too high for me to see anything other than sky and it doesn't open. This is also a useful security feature when you want to keep somebody locked in. She tells me the glass is unbreakable. The door into my room is a sliding solid door, electronically controlled. There is no handle on the inside. That's okay, she has it programmed to open at six in the morning and close at nine at night, but she often overrides that and operates it herself directly from her phone, one of the joys of the connected house. The light switch is also on the outside of the doorway and can also be operated remotely. She tells me it is useful for her job to be able to practically test out this sort of stuff. And boy does she test some way-out electronic stuff on me. The walls are painted a hard industrial quality grey with a wipe clean gloss finish.

There is a shower and toilet in one corner of my room under the window wall. It's an all in one. The toilet is like those old fashioned French hole-in-the-ground ceramic square jobs with two steps for your feet on either side of the hole. You have to squat down to do your business. As you do your eyes are drawn to the camera she has mounted over the door that is focussed directly on you, its red LED blinking as it records your humiliation. There is a chrome push button on the corner wall beside the toilet for the flush. There is a shower gel dispenser mounted on the wall beside where hot and cold shower mixer control would be. There is just a push button instead that lets the shower run for about 30 seconds and then you have to push it again. It stops you relaxing or luxuriating in a nice shower. Reminds you how little control you have. The first blast of the shower is cold and then it heats up to a normal temperature. She can probably control the temperature back at the pump or something, because sometimes for punishment she puts me on cold showers only for a week. Usually if she feels I'm getting too horny. The main shower head is directly over the toilet square. You stand on the two foot steps of the toilet to wash yourself while the toilet area gets cleaned as well. You can switch the shower flow over to a second shower head lower down. It is mounted on a flexible hose and is normally used for intimate cleaning. No need for toilet paper. Too much information, I hear you say. We'll move on.

My bed is located in the other corner of the window wall, also covered by the camera over the door. A second camera mounted high on the window wall looks out over the opposite half of the room, covering the door, the T-bar and the tablet mounted in the opposite wall. There is also a sturdy wooden chair at that end of the room and a built in closet cum cupboard on the wall beside the door. It holds my entire wardrobe of normal and fancy clothes, plus the toys, including a charging station for the butt plug collection. That's it. The room is not done out like a dungeon, no chains hanging from the ceiling, or St Andrews crosses or cages and stuff that you would associate with a dominatrix's lair. But all that is needed is discretely available, including some rings that recess into the wall at foot and shoulder height, and more associated with the bed. There is a double power socket in the wall near the door. It is on its own circuit and, as with the light, it can be powered on or off from outside the room. It is usually off. A recent arrival, down at that end is Alexa, a little black box now permanently mounted and wired in on the wall near the door. Alexa is my new electronic assistant, my companion according to my wife. Alexa is charged with keeping my timetable on track and making my life in the house less boring, according to my wife who has programmed Alexa to do these things. Alexa is a work in progress in my charitable view. Not quite there yet, thank goodness.

The terrazzo flooring is a good aid for letting the mind wander. Terrazzo , which was invented by the Romans or the Greeks or the Byzantines, long time ago anyway, lasts forever. Little chips of different coloured stone are mixed into some type of cement matrix, polished down smooth and that's it. All those little flecks and chips of stone have become ships in great naval battles I've conducted while held in the T-bar, or islands in an archipelago that I have navigated around in my little raft while wondering about the inhabitants sex lives.

"Slave, time to play a game, acknowledge."

Here we go. It's Alexa, my new best friend. I've had a couple of day's experience of handling her intrusions. An immediate appropriate response is required or she gets tetchy. But 'inviting' me to play a game is a novelty, though the wife did say this was a possibility.

"Alexa, I understand, thank you." That's seems to be the required acknowledgement to any Alexa interjection; no variations allowed, no witty asides or irony appreciated. Alexa goes straight into it. She doesn't do preliminaries.

"Slave, what is the longest river in the Americas? Respond in ten seconds. Ten... nine..., eight..."

So that's her idea of a game, a general knowledge quiz. Beats thinking about worse things, I suppose. Let's see how this goes. But I'd better be quick.

"....five..., four..., three..."

"The Amazon."

"Correct. Next question: How long is the Amazon approximately; is it A: 5,800 kilometres, B: 6,200 kilometres or C: 6,400 kilometres? Ten..., nine..., eight..."

Into guessing territory now. My wife could be watching my effort online. Her and her work colleagues might be taking bets on my level of general knowledge. All of it is being recorded anyway via the cameras for her later amusement. Might as well go for the middle one. "6,200 kilometres."

ZZZaaappp! Ouch! I get a powerful shock in the ass from my butt plug.

"Incorrect answer. Choose from the two remaining choices, A: 5,800 kilometres, or C: 6,400 kilometres? Ten..., nine..., eight..."

That was sore. Clearly Alexa is hooked into the telemetry for my butt plug.

"..., four..., three..."

It's a fifty-fifty call. "6,400 kilometres," I shout, clenching my buttocks tightly in anticipation of another shock.

"Correct. Next question: What is the longest river in Europe?"

Alexa went on for four more rounds of questions, ten questions in total, all about rivers of the world. I was OK on naming the rivers, not so hot on their lengths. I can tell you that when you get the second go of the multiple choice question wrong, she gives you a double zap in the butt. Everytime. The one thing you cannot fault Alexa on is consistency. As for the learning I got out of it? None. I can no longer tell you how long the Amazon is, or any of the other rivers because after a couple of zaps and double zaps in the butt that just doesn't matter. The aching and throbbing in your ass is what matters. And she was so polite about it.

"That is the end of the game, Slave. Thank you for playing. You scored six out of a possible ten points. The score has been recorded. We will play another game in one hour, acknowledge."

"Alexa, I understand, thank you."

Alexa, the little black box now mounted into the wall in the corner beside door, retired into silence. She's probably searching the databases of the world for hard questions for her next 'game.'

Now my asshole is sore, my arms and shoulders are sore, and my spread legs are stretched and stiff. I am in pain, not in discomfort. It's probably half way into my four hour punishment. The clock ticks on. There are a few little yellowish puddles and splashes on the terrazzo floor between my feet. I can't help myself when those zaps in the ass hit on a full bladder. I'm not allowed use the toilet during the day; morning and evening only. My wife enjoys me being a little uncomfortable in that department when she comes from the office. Often, as soon as she arrives home and I'm on normal duty, she'll ask me to go and fill a large glass of water and ice for her knowing the splash of water from the tap will put me under pressure. She'll sometimes take a few sips while standing beside me at the sink and slowly pour the water and ice out again, splash, plonk, splash, into the sink. Then she'll ask me to fill the glass with water again while pressing her hand down on my abdomen over my bladder and rubbing her hand round and round. She'll be satisfied when she sees a little stain of pee spread on my pants front. She'll make some humiliating remark about me being not fit to be let out or that she'll have to get me plastic pants and tell me to try not to wet the floor while preparing her dinner. Then she'll dismiss me with a slap on the bum to go and get her food while she wanders off to relax after her day in the office.

I am watching the slow movement of the little splashes of urine spreading over the terrazzo as the blobs of liquid join up and merge with one another. It's the lava flow of Mount Kilauea. I see whole villages of marble chips being swallowed up by the inexorable flow of the molten lava. The sex lives of the villagers has been put on hold as they rush to evacuate. I can hear them shouting to one another as they pile their pathetic bundles of stuff onto their mopeds...

"Slave, time to play a game, acknowledge." Here we go again.

'Alexa, I understand, thank you.'

I can't help clenching my buttocks and releasing a further little jet of pee in an involuntary spasm as I anticipate the next series of zaps from Alexa. What will it be now; highest mountains?

It was great composers; where they were born and, as the follow up, when. Not my finest few minutes. Germany or Austria were always fairly safe guesses, but often just a little wrong. I got two out of five nationalities right. Now who would have guessed that Gustav Holst was born in Cheltenham, England? Trick question; not fair. As for year of birth, at least it was multiple choice. I guessed one right first off, another on the second guess and you don't get a third guess, just a double zap of pain -- three times I felt that. Alexa tells me I have scored four points out of a possible ten. I was weak and breathless as I croaked out my obligatory 'Alexa, I understand, thank you' response to her summing up of my efforts. Alexa went silent, quietly gloating no doubt at her superior level of general knowledge compared with the average human, counting the days to the great robot take-over. Won't be long now Alexa, unless we pull your plug first.

Back to the ticking clock, maybe about forty minutes to go. Taking steady breaths, doing some gentle knee flexes. I review my descent from a normal functioning member of society to becoming the willing but helpless slave of this power-mad egomaniac I am married to. It was a slow take down really, but she took me down all the way in the end, as you can see. It started out with clothes. Every married man has heard the immortal words, 'Surely you are not going out dressed like that.' It's a bit of a wakeup call. Nobody ever questioned how you dressed before, not even herself when she was just the girlfriend, but she had just been biding her time. For me, it progressed from 'you can't go out looking like that,' and getting changed into some rigout she approved of, to being an actuality. One night she decided I just couldn't go out like that and she had no time to wait for me to change. I was left behind. It was like I wasn't allowed out. Same as being an eight year old kid that is told by his mother he can't go out to play; this in front of his friends who are all at the front door looking at him like he is a pathetic wimp. That night was all stage managed by her of course, she actually didn't want me out with her at whatever event we were to attend. I would be cramping her style as a mover and shaker in the IT security sector, or whatever, and she probably wanted to schmooze some top executive over the dinner, angling for a big job.

I have a vivid memory of that evening. Not because of being considered unfit to be seen out in public. I understood even then that it was just a pretext, we had been heading in that direction for some time, but always in play. It was what she said as she swept off out into the night. My good wife said she would deal with me properly when she got home, and slammed the front door behind her. I could have walked then. I still had a credit card, car keys and a paying job; a life. But I didn't want to walk, no. I wanted to be 'dealt with properly.' A massive hard-on marked the moment as I surveyed the pleasurably painful vista of this new domestic life that my imagination laid out before me. The thought of her coming home later and 'dealing with me properly' was far more exciting than the prospect of attending, as her dull, non-IT partner, the dinner of whatever techie trade show was in town. I loved the thought of my wife talking to me like that -- for evermore. I gloried in the implicit threat of being punished for my slovenly appearance. The whole implied power exchange was the game changer. From now on my wife would treat me like I was the very junior partner in this marriage. She had decided that I should stay at home, she would decide what to she was going to do with me -- later, at a time of her choosing. What I thought about it all was no longer a factor in this equation. She would decide. I could hardly sit down for the rest of the night. I paced over and back imagining ever more lurid scenarios. I thought about jacking off, but then I wanted to stay aroused for her return. I wanted to be panting at the door like an excited puppy dog when his mistress comes home. And I was. When she got back at about 2 am I was still up for it, my dick heaving in my trousers. My tongue was probably hanging out. But she was tired.

She quickly disabused me of any notions of immediate gratification. Surely, she said, I could see she was tired, that she needed to get some sleep before work the next day. She said she could see that I was not ready for sleep. She told me I was going to spend the night in the guest room so as not bother her. I was bitterly disappointed at not being 'dealt with.' But my good wife had a surprise in store. She let me undress in our bedroom first and then, ignoring my raging and dripping hard-on, she told me to turn around and to put my hands behind my back. I did so and she handcuffed me with the pink fluffy cuffs we had back then for our occasional bit of 'play.' I was thrilled. We were back on track to this new and exciting future. I was even more excited when, after pushing me naked and handcuffed into the guest bedroom, she closed the door and turned the key from the outside.

"Be a good boy, she said through the locked door. 'Try to sleep. You'll need it."

"Yes, Madam," I replied. That was the first time I said that. I lowered my naked and handcuffed self onto the bed and lay there in the dark wallowing in a delirious daze of future servile possibilities; Yes, Madam... Yes, Madam... Yes, Madam... whatever you wish, Madam...is that to your satisfaction, Madam, over and over. Eventually I slept a bit, on and off. Sleeping with your hands handcuffed behind your back is not easy, even at the best of times.